Fly swift, my light gazelle,

  To her who now lies waking,

To hear thy silver bell

  The midnight silence breaking.

And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,

  Beneath her lattice springing,

Ah, well she'll know how sweet

  The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no—not words, for they

  But half can tell love's feeling;

Sweet flowers alone can say

  What passion fears revealing.

A once bright rose's withered leaf,

  A towering lily broken,—

Oh these may paint a grief

  No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,

  The wreath thou speedest over

Yon moonlight dale, to tell

  My lady how I love her.

And, what to her will sweeter be

  Than gems the richest, rarest,—

From Truth's immortal tree[1]

  One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.